


Unadorned

by CatsofTzfat



Category: Loki - Fandom, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Angst, Asgard, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Forced Marriage, Hurt Loki (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loss of Control, Loss of Virginity, Parenthood, Pre-Thor (2011), References to Norse Religion & Lore, Substance Abuse, Verbal Abuse, reader is not main character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatsofTzfat/pseuds/CatsofTzfat
Summary: The God of Mischief and Lies is spiraling out of control. To reel him back in line, Odin arranges for Loki to be married. To his dismay, it's under vows which charm anything his wife demands of him, forcing him to obey no matter what.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), Loki (Marvel)/Reader, Loki/OFC
Comments: 25
Kudos: 160





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I.
> 
> Do not watch marvel.
> 
> Sue me.
> 
> I like Loki and Norse stuff, though. Love me a complex man.

That stupid old man had gone too far.

Odin had done plenty of outrageous things to try and discipline his youngest son, but this took the cake. If it was Loki’s attention the King wanted, then he certainly fucking had it. 

“You cannot be serious,” the young godly prince exclaimed across the table, his fists clenched so hard that the leather of his gloves creaked. “If you were so desperate for grandchildren, Father, then why don’t you tie off Thor to some miserable wench?”

Loki had been detained in the throne room after supper, the courtiers gone to their beds, blissfully unaware of the joyously horrid plans for the lesser son. For the moment. He had plans to sneak his way into the maid’s quarters to have his usual fun, the bittersweet scent of Asgard meed about him. His bulking, oafish brother beheld Asgard’s limelight for hundreds of years. While this made the younger see red from always being second-best, Loki did not resort to plans of competing with Thor. Ruling was its own point of interest; lust for power and glory always at the cusp of other desires. However, Loki was comfortable in his position at the palace. While he hated Thor’s overzealous praise from the realm, the responsibilities that came with being the first son were equally disliked. 

Loki liked his freedom, and over the years he’d become more and more invested in his merriments. The gratification and power it gave him satisfied cravings of dominance and control, filling an endless hungry void with cheap yet bountiful subsistence. The more he sought to fill this void, the more he yearned. More he yearned, the greater his need for grander gratification. One disgustingly long story short, Loki’s mischiefs became malicious. 

And Odin finally decided to put his  
foot  
_down._

He’d tried punishing the boy many times over the years, but it was always for some trivial, fickle matter - at least in regards to recent misgivings. Nothing seemed to really get its mark in, and enough of Frigga’s tears over her son’s increasingly concerning behavior was the straw that broke the ox’s back.

Something had to be done, and Odin’s solution made the younger prince have a full out, full-grown temper tantrum.

“You’ve been given enough warnings, Loki,” The old king said gravely, one hand gripping his staff as he leaned down from his throne to regard the younger son with one murky eye. “We have all grown weary of your outlandish behavior. Tomorrow you will meet with the lady and by the end of this week you will be vowed!”

“No! This is outrageous!” Loki shouted, standing up from his own throne so violently he nearly blasted it to ruins. He was breathing fast, like a caged animal being poked with a hot iron rod. His cheeks were already flushed from alcohol, but now he was beet-red with fury. This intervention, however gentle the onslaught was, would end in chaos with or without a drunken prince. It was a meeting between the royal family, no one else, but to Loki he was being swallowed up by a crowd of his own personal demons. “Mother, be the voice of reason here. This is pure anarchy!”

However, the one woman who had given him the most attention out of all the family, his own mother, looked away and hid her mouth with her hand, refusing to speak least she weep. And the Queen did not weep. But Loki had gone too far this time.

“No,” Loki shouted again, spinning on his heal so fast his dark green cape billowed around him. “This is madness! I will not be wed to some sniveling little girl who will overshadow me just as everyone else!”

“Son, no one is trying to overshadow you--” Frigga began, but was cut down by a single, biting blow.

“As if you would know, _Mother_ ,” the dark prince hissed, a serpentine tongue slithering out of his mouth. “The second son always comes second!”

With a nasty glare, Loki stormed out of the throne room with as much thunder in Thor’s power. The doors slammed behind him with a deafening bang, leaving the royal family in momentary silence. What had become of Loki? Why was he this way, so suddenly? He had always been a slippery fellow, but now, now he had fallen off the deep end. Drinking, fucking, _murdering--_

The remaining prince shot up off his seat to chase after him, but a touch from his mother halted him. “Let him be,” Frigga said softly, “Let Loki sober up before we confront him again.”

Odin hit the end of his staff on the dais. “Sobor or not, he will be engaged before sundown tomorrow. The girl will be his voice of control soon enough.”


	2. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki meets his bride-to-be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe a small tw for minor domestic violence? it doesn't last long.
> 
> short chap, but next will be long, i promise! thanks for all the likes so far!

She was plain.

That was Loki’s first impression of her.

There was no fanfare on his fiancee’s arrival; it was quiet, unannounced, and lacked any notice from the palace on a whole. Loki expected a grand feast in honor of her arrival, since she was to be named a princess of Asgard, wife of the second prince. The realm had not seen a royal wedding, much less a royal birth in over a thousand years. He could already feel the headache approaching over the people’s inevitable insanity over its excitement. Damned if he would give anyone the pleasure of fathering a new royal. No doubt the kingdom would adore a princess, not to mention the taste of a new heir, however down the line it was. However besides all of that, the realm would be happiest to learn the God of Mischief would have someone to *tame* him. 

Despicable. 

At the earliest moment possible, he would get rid of her. 

The moment Loki stepped into the dining hall the previous evening, he noticed two things. First was that the massive room was no different than any other night. It was no less chaotic than a typical palace supper was. Secondly there was no highly bejeweled warrior woman sitting at the front, so at first he believed that the chit had yet to arrive. Only when he took his customary seat did he finally notice the girl beside him.

She was dressed in a very pale, long beige gown that reached beyond her wrists. It was no richly made fabric of the typical Asgardian wear. The style, too, was unlike anything he’d seen. Despite that oddity, she sat there small and meek, not touching her plate and staring very hard at her glass, equally untouched. He thought nothing of it. No physical feature to her jumped out at him as special, and his gaze slid over her as swiftly as a passing glance. Who was she? One of the queen’s ladies, no doubt. Therefore nobody, really. At least nobody that mattered to Loki. 

And so he ignored her not so much out of haughtiness but from lack of it having anything to do with him. No one else seemed to notice her, so he didn’t either. The curio that she was solely stood on the fact she was sitting amongst the royals. Loki rolled his eyes, and quickly forgot about her presence. 

“So what do you think of the lady, brother?” Came Thor’s booming voice, prompting Loki rolled his eyes. The blonde idiot lifted his sloshing mead cup toward the girl beside the younger prince. Loki’s finely plucked brow twitched at his, and he glanced over to her. The lady glanced at him from the corner of her eye, holding his gaze a moment too long. Hmm, was she seeking some of his attention? How cute. Thought of reaching his hand beneath the table and teasing her relentlessly throughout dinner danced in his mind. He’d certainly done it before, and made ladies shriek in alarm or moan from his wicked, wicked fingers. Loki didn’t give the tiny little thing much thought before, but now he fancied she’d have soft thighs. Imagined them quivering beneath his steady palm. His fingers rhythmically tapped on the table beside his own glass, the urge to snake his hand beneath her skirts and tease her most tender parts. Frigga may have banned him from the maid’s quarters, but he had plenty of other ways to have his fun and pleasure. How long could this little girl last before she cried out in the populated room from his touch?

“Maybe she should introduce herself,” he purred, giving her a cocky smirk and a boyish shake of his hair. Bullseye--the girl blushed noticeably and turned her face away, her fork clattering against her plate. Feeling quite pleased with himself, he lifted his cup and drowned it of its sweet contents, the burn fueling his seductive thoughts. Perhaps he’ll take her to a private alcove after dinner, and bugger her from the back against the wall. 

“Don’t tease her too badly, Loki,” came his mother’s level-headed voice. Loki narrowed his eyes a bit. Frigga did not involve herself with the affairs of her sons, especially when it was of a more personal nature. Only when it really made an impact on the royal family did anyone really say anything. “In the morning you and the young lady will get to properly converse.”

Now his attention was caught. His cup all but banged the table as he set it down, and his glare turned to his parents. 

Oh, those old sneaky fucks. Thought they could sneak his new _bride_ in unannounced, right under his nose? Make him be _polite_ by throwing them together in a crowded room? It was too early for Loki to leave, no matter how abrupt or quietly. It would be noticed, and it would be talked off. He was expected to dance and entertain the palace’s visitors when the meal was finished, even if it was for a short while. And now this--this _girl_ was further chained to him! His face went pale with some horror, then red with fury at the injustice. How dare they. How dare they! He couldn’t even give the stupid little girl a proper warning to stay the hell away from him, not without attracting attention.

Teeth gritting hard enough to make his jaws ache, he turned to the girl and indeed reached under the table. He placed his hand on her thigh, feeling no pleasure in making her jump other than the satisfaction of making her afraid. 

With a pleasant look on his face --because who was the God of Mischief and Lies if he couldn’t even pretend?-- he leaned over and whispered sweetly, “I will tear your heart out the moment you try to control me. Understand, little girl?” In a louder voice, he adds, “I believe we will get along swimmingly, mother.”

The girl’s eyes were so wide he mused they’d pop right out of her fucking face. They’d seemed so dull before, now bright with rightful fear as he bore down on her, his handsome face pleasant but his own eyes burning with anger. His hand on her thigh gripped so hard that anyone would cry out in pain. However, it is only her lower lip that gives an annoying little tremble. She turned away, back to her food, and murmured, “Yes, my lord prince.” Her voice did not waiver, she did not glare, and did not smile. She was neither the mewling or hissing chit he’d imagined her to be. Loki’s grip on her thigh only grew harder.

Nothing, but a simple nod of her head.

If he didn’t hate her so much, maybe he’d be impressed with how well-composed she was. But all he saw was nothing, nothing but rage, and deemed her to be the most useless and unextraordinary creature in existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to Odin this gets a little better.
> 
> soon.
> 
> i hope.


	3. In The Gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OFC/Reader is given a surname - though in Old Norse surnames were like, 'son or daughter of the father'

Both princes of Asgard were not early risers, but compared to other nobility they rose relatively early. Servants were already bustling about the grand and golden palace, guards at their stations, the King and Queen up and about if duties were called. 

As it were, Loki did not leave his bed that day as per usual after waking. He stared up at the dark green canopy above his bed and did some quiet meditation. 

After today he would no longer be a free man. Today he would officially be introduced to his bride-to-be, hours before an official engagement ceremony. There would be no moment of respite for the younger prince today. It felt like a bear trap; an iron-clad snare that had taken hold of his spirit, refusing to let go. Granted he hadn’t really met the girl--he knew what her left thigh felt like gripped in his hand, knew how she quaked beneath his touch from sheer yet stubborn fear. However, Loki was being thrown into a union he had no say in. He would have no say _at all_ after the marriage. 

Frigga was putting a Fidelity Charm on it. 

The Fidelity Charm was a powerful spell invented from eons ago, designed to place on couples upon their marriage day. The original purpose of it was to keep both parties from infidelity, as both of them would vow to be loyal and demand it in return. In those days of the spell’s concoction, it was done in a very specific way. It was intended for loyalty and nothing more. However, all good things never last very long. Loki knew that by heart. The magic was steadily corrupted and eventually only used on women to be obedient to their husbands to a fault. 

This is of course an archaic spell now; a barbaric and forgotten bygone from the Dark Ages. 

But now this age-old vile curse has been resurfaced. But instead of him having an all-submissive wife, he would be under the rule. Anything this arranged wife demanded of him Loki would have no choice but to follow through. She could tell him to kill his own mother and there would be nothing but her word to stop him. Though, considering his feelings at the moment, violence toward his family was not off the table yet.

Never before had a reprimand so harsh come from Frigga--nothing more than a meek, sad little lecture. All the love for his mother did not prevent the absolute fury which burned through him now. But beside that, his heart was also heavy with betrayal. How could she? Was this her idea? Only Frigga was as good at seiðr as Loki. She had been the one to teach him. Who else would have concocted this inhuman idea? If it had been Odin, though, Loki would not be too surprised.

Thor had always been the favorite. The future king. The golden boy. Loki was just a barely tolerated spare to the famous heir. Discipline had never been Odin or Frigga’s strongsuit when it came to their sons, though Loki had tried many times to point out his brother’s misgivings. To rule was a serious and grave thing, hence why no stuipid foolhardy knight ever became king--at least not for very long. Despite all of his protests in the past, mentioning Thor’s flaws were never dealt with. Overtime, the idiocy and blindness of their father’s love for the eldest son grew into mad resentment in Loki. 

Loki knew he was not well-liked, at least compared to Thor. But now Loki has gone and done something _wrong_ and everyone has lost their goddamn mind.

He grit his teeth, fists forming at his sides. Feelings and injustice aside, to hide in his room like a scared mutt with his tail tucked between his legs was the coward’s way out. Indeed, he refused to show fear before that _little girl_. The sooner he took advantage of the time now till the marriage, the better. 

It was time to put her in her place. 

\-----

Loki and his future-wife met in the gardens. 

The girl was wearing a green-and-gold dress that was much more in taste with the Asgardian style this time around. It hugged a slender waist with a thick jeweled belt, adorned with all the shimmering, dark shades of his colors. Like before she was dressed modestly, even her wrists hidden from view. The dress was a teasing number on her; covering all of her skin besides her feet, face, and fingers, yet hugged her snuggly from all around. 

He had to wonder who was behind the tailoring. Loki knew it was meant to allure him. The faceless chaperoning ladies flanking the princess-to-be noticed it too, one sending her an envious look and batted eyes when the younger prince glanced at her, while the other shook her head with pity. How pathetic. 

Loki gave the lady a mocking bow of his head as he strode up beside her. She rose immediately from a bench, curtsying deeply to him while keeping her eyes lowered. 

Before he could open his mouth, one of the women accompanying her stepped forward. “Your Highness, allow me to introduce the Lady Dagdóttir, of Kvíviñ.”

Loki’s lips curled into a curious moue at the woman. Kvíviñ was a small yet richly blessed city far to the north, dominated by rivers and marshlands. Rarely did they mettle in the affairs of the main city of Asgard, since trade was the sole thing uniting them besides Odin’s rule over all the realms. He’d only visited there a handful of times, and his only impression of the people was that they were unexceptional. Pretty, but lacking anything else of notice. 

The God’s eyes dragged over the Kvíviñ lady. Once more she avoided his gaze. It was a sign of submission, which pleased him greatly, but her back was ramrod straight and nothing about her shivered from fear or uncertainty. His lips curled a bit. She needed to be afraid of him, to learn her place as his woman. He had no choice in making her his, but if it was to be so, she was nothing more than property in his eyes. 

“I was not aware Lord Dag had any children,” he said with a lazy scoff, turning on his heel to begin walking down the garden path. His mother was rather fond of the palace gardens, and Loki would certainly be lying if he said there were some places in the gardens forbidden to anyone outside of the royal family. Several types of flowers dotted along the path, varying in bright, lovely colors that left the viewer in awe of their unblemished perfection. Loki had seen them all hundreds of times before, so when he heard the shuffling steps of the lady as she followed him waver he made an impatient motion with his hand for her to catch up. 

“He does, my lord prince. I have two older sisters. Apologies if this has misled you... We do not leave the manor much.”

Loki rolled his eyes at her chittering. “Of course. But now he’s decided to come out of his hermitic life by sending his daughter to simper for the God of Lie’s favor?” He did not need to look over at her to see her look of shock. Her hitch in breath was enough. Instead of finding some sliver of hope in her dismay at his bold assumption, he goes on to say, “Obviously, girl, you were not brought here by random. Her Majesty would never bring a simple-minded whore with a fanciful lesser title to be a duchess or Princess.”

He then turns his head to look at her, hands clasped behind his back. She was a little thing, pale and looking at him in some small amount of terror. As much as he wished for it to be from fear of _him_ , Loki wretchedly understood it was from something else she was fretful of. 

“I-Forgive me, Your Highness, I was summoned to the palace--”

“Yes,” he interrupts, spinning on his heel to face her properly, towering over her with all the intimidation he could muster. Loki was not usually like this; his behavior had been different as of late, but with the ladies he was typically charming. But charm had no room here, not between them. “Tell me, girl, how did you come to be my bride-to-be?”

The girl swallowed thickly and looked up to meet his eyes. “I was summoned to the palace--”

“You already said that! Speak clearly, you mewling quim!”

She blanched a bit at his impatience, but her shoulders rolled as she attempted to straighten herself. “The Allmother invited several girls to the palace days ago, my lord prince. They were under certain terms, I believe--ladies who met certain conditions.”

“And you happened to prevail in some test? Or did Mother just happen to like you best?”

He watched her lips purse a bit. A smidge of loathing inside of him had to give way for some respect toward her. She was clearly uncomfortable in his presence, and his harshness toward her did not soothe matters. Despite that, she did not quake before him like last night, and did not weep or beg for forgiveness for her hated existence. However, he -reluctantly- had to like her lack of arrogance, something he’d expected if a woman was told she would have full power over a prince in Asgard. 

“No, my lord prince. Your mother, Her Majesty, asked me a few questions and reviewed my history. Then I was sent back to my rooms as the next lady was interviewed. It did not take more than half an hour for each of us.”

“And where are the other ladies you speak of? Why were you chosen?”

“Apologies, Highness, but I do not know. A steward came to my door and plainly told me I was to be engaged to you.”

“So something is just inanely special about you, is what you’re trying to say?” 

Her eyes go wide once more, and she shakes her hands. “No, my Lord! I humbly come to stand before you today.”

Was she trying to make herself the ingénue here? How sad! However the innocent act of hers did not deter him, nor hone any pity toward her. He continued to sink claws into the subject, grilling the girl mercilessly to find the source of why _her._ Why this grab little chit was to be his slavedriver. There had to be something--why this little girl and not some eyelash-batting scarlet noble woman from the court, who would chortle and strut to know she could do whatever it was she pleased with him. Anyone would do so, no matter how good an actor they were on the outside. Loki swore that soon enough he’d drag her true colors out, because no matter how flattering she was in his house colors they were all just costume paint. It had to be. 

He flared his nostrils and stepped toward her, ignoring one of the chaperone’s reminded to be kind and refrain from intimacy now. He may be the lesser prince but he was still a prince; he could easily order the ogling women to leave and ravage the girl right here amongst Mother’s white roses. Even so, he would not do so, intentions focused on ripping the girl open to examine her inners and leave his mark to make her know once and for all he was not to be trifled with.

Face inches from hers, he could see how big her eyes truly were. He could all but swim in the kaleidoscopic of her irises, to decode the hidden meaning he was dying to understand. The whites of her eyes were red and raw, as if she’d been upset earlier. This close, he can catch the scent of sorrowful tears and milky tea. Her lower lip was trembling, glossy and parted as she stood there, winded and statue-like from his mere closeness. 

But she did not cry from fright. She did not beg for mercy.

Who _was_ she?

“Who are you?” He husked. 

“M-My Lord, I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, little girl. Who are you? Why does Odin wish to saddle me with _you?”_

This draws a more honest reaction from her, and his senses preen with his ability to tell honesty from lies. Nevermind she had never quite lied to him, she’d barely spoken to him before yet never was she so truthful in her behavior toward the dark prince. Her eyes seemed to shimer in the morning sunlight as she took a step back from him. One of her hands flew up to her neck, as if she wished to protect her throat lest he lunge for it. Her lip trembled again, but her eyes were glued to him.

“I’m the youngest daughter of Dag of K--”

“No! What makes you so special? Do you yearn for me to rue the day you were born!? Speak, girl!”

She grew confused, and hurtful, eyes looking around as if the answer to his question would fall from the sky. However nothing would come to her aid, not now, not out here where it was just her, the prince, and the two female courtiers who were long forgotten. One of the women came to step forward, honestly afraid the infamous son of Odin might kill the poor girl. However she was halted in her tracks by a glimmer of green light. Loki did not need to move so much as a finger muscle to stop her.

His near-shaking little fiancėe did not speak, lips clamped shut. Why? Was she afraid to answer? Did she think it would anger him even more than he was now? Loki already wanted to snuff her lifeforce out, run away and live his days somewhere else he would be appreciated. Forget this whole charade even attempted to happen. Or did the girl honestly not know? Was she an equally unwilling participant in all of this, too? That was likely true, he knew, God of Lies of course. But why would his mother pick this girl? _Why why why why why why--!?_

“M-My lord prince, please do not be to repelled by me too greatly. Just days ago I would never have dreamed of being in the royal palace at all.”

“Well, I’m certain that dream of yours has come true, hasn’t it?” He responded coldly, still bent over to loom above her, face close enough to hers to feel her slight exhale of breath from her soft, quiet words.

“No,” she responds, and lifts a hand to his face. Loki jerks his head back a bit, but stares at her small limb as it continues to rise to him. Bold little bird, he’d give her that. What was she trying to do? Seduce him? Her expression, though difficult to decipher, was anything but sexually inviting. Her fingers rise to his hair and brush something off: a leaf from the many overhead trees, sunlight bleeding through as it was moved off him and tumbled through the air to the ground. He eyes her dangerously, but does not move. Her cheeks darken, and her lips purse as if words were trying to fall forth but she was too wary to speak freely. “My Prince, I do not wish to cause you any torment or distress. Indeed I have been told of the Fidelity Charm but a place of authority has never held interest to me. The Queen has told me of your misgivings and how they have changed you. She and your father are afraid, my lord. They are afraid you have gone too far, and that you have changed so much. Even your brother mourns the man you once were.”

“My brother can go suck a dick,” he sneered, hoping his crudeness jars her enough to stop these loathful words of truth. 

“All I ask is for you to be patient, not with me but your family. They want the best of you, for you to be well again, and to exercise this darkness that has taken hold of you.” Loki opens his mouth to call out her insolent behavior. He needed to remind her who exactly she was talking to, and how easily he could overpower her right now without the charm in place. He could grab that slender throat of hers and shake the pride out of her, replace it with righteous fear for him. How easily he could throw her against a tree and hike up her skirts, forcibly take her, and announce that she came to him not a maiden. How effortless he could destroy her for everyone else. 

Before he could do anything toward her, she rose her hands again, this time cupping his cheeks in hers. There seemed to be sorrow glinting in her eyes, and he wanted to yank away and beat her for laying her hands uninvited on a royal family member. But the look arrested him, shook him to the core, and he froze as soundly as she had when he approached her. 

Her thumbs brush his cheekbones, and a tear threatens to spill from her dark lashes. “You are filled with much suffering, my Prince. Please, do not turn me away with hate so soon, as I have no wish to chain you. All I ask is for you to take better care of yourself.”

Loki has no words for this. Her true nature has come forth, and its honesty shakes him up so bad he has to close his eyes and find peace just to keep from trembling. Anger and hate still burn within him, at his chest, at his heart, at his throat. It sizzles in his stomach as yellow bile and acid and threatens to vomit up violence and gore. The dark prince feels confined, caged, and leashed all at once from the lady’s hands on his face. Light dances through the waving branches and shower’s her face with some kind of emotion he cannot name, but inside he hisses away and refuses to deal with it. 

The girl opens her mouth again to say something. Loki is buzzing with a million feelings all at once but nothing will surface to allow him to properly deal with her, much less speak. He finds himself void of reason and hanging off her word. But the words never come, and whatever illusion or enchantment has taken hold of him breaks like glass. 

“Your Highness,” Says one of the chaperones, the very one who’d glared at the lady with open jealousy. Loki and Dagdóttir jerk away and break the ridiculously intense eye contact to stare at the woman with mixed, albeit dazed reactions. The lady’s hands fall from his face. It is summer but Loki feels as though a bitter cold wind is biting at his cheeks. “You cannot get too close to the Dagdóttir before the wedding,” she says, somewhat of a gloating sneer that’s aimed at his fiancée.

Loki is fed up with all of the insolence lately, especially from the women. His teeth grit and he straightens his back, strides forward to the wretched envious bitch, and snarls, “As my fiancée, I am at leave to do whatever it is I wish to do the lady, do you understand? One more remark and I will have you and your family sent from the castle.”

The woman’s eyes all but popped out of her head, jaw dropping to the ground.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and grumbling, he turns back to the girl. She was looking away from him again, eyes dried up but still raw. Her hands were clasped together before her, and she stood there waiting patiently for whatever the dark prince might do.

Somehow her lack of boldness from before makes his resentment swell, and he marches toward her to grab her chin in his hand. She gasped a bit as he roughful pulls her face up to his. “If I wasn’t blessed with the ability to read into lies, I would accuse you of trying to paint pretty falsehoods at me and throw you into the dungeons. Do you understand, daughter of Dag?”

She nods mutely.

“Your tears do not make me pity you, wench. Try and assay or sweeten me like that again and I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to my father’s mutts.”

She nods again, but does not seem entirely cowed by his threat. Just like last night, how he’d certainly formed bruises on her leg, she stood there and took his abuse with stride. 

It makes him angry; this time for reasons unknown, stubbornness, or pride perhaps. He still needs a reason to hate her, as he has never treated a woman this way before. He may be the monster in the family, a once-harmless-turned-cruel trickster, but Frigga raised him to be kind toward the ladies. A woman that could make him a lowly serf was not a lady. He was already the butt-end of everyone’s jokes, and if he had a wife who did this too he refused to play nice.

But if her words are to be true after the spell is placed, he is dumbfounded on what to think of her. The uncertainty of her place here makes it all the more difficult for him to label her. She’d been a foe from the moment he was told of this arrangement, but if she were a friend--

Then he is lost. 

It frightens him to think that he may already be so.


	4. Slippery Secret Meetings

The engagement feast was to be held at sundown. 

Loki had no idea how many people were invited to the celebrations, much less how many people would attend. As the second prince, the realm’s citizens were less inclined to be thrilled with his achievements. However, it was still a royal engagement and the people were bound to cheer and drink for any good reason to celebrate in the capital. Odin had already laid a date out for the wedding as well. When, you might say? _Tomorrow._ What a bloody joy. How marvelous. As annoying as the haste was, his parents were right to plan for the union so soon, lest the dark prince make a run for it. Loki would gamble to say that if Odin could, the wedding would be held tonight. The gravity of the situation aside, they still needed _some_ time for people to come and word to spread of the royal wedding. This was as quickly as politically-accepting Odin could do in terms of a speedy wedding. Even if Loki was the second son, he was still a prince, and royal weddings took time. Even still, all the guests could not arrive tomorrow night, so the day after tomorrow would still be celebrated to the fullest.

The dark prince left his bride-to-be with her ladies in waiting in the gardens. He’d left soon after the strange moment with the girl, feeling as if his face was on fire. All inclinations pointed the blame to anger, and the annoying chit’s impudent behavior. The silent rage this morning had been kindled into a roaring inferno, only to be fueled more by his fiancee’s mere presence. A reminder of all that he would soon lose, the one thing he’d had in the mess of everything he’d been denied or ridiculed: his freedom. 

But then she’d gone and touched him so softly he’d wondered if she’d even touched him at all. Her words, too, were spoken more tenderly than by anyone else beside his own mother. But Loki did not wish to think of the queen now, not when he was too deeply consumed by past and present haunts.

The trip back to the palace was all Loki had in terms of peace and quiet. A couple of royal couturiers (his parents’ personal tailors), a well-dressed steward, and mute valet were waiting for the dark prince upon his entrance. The steward, a man Loki knew as Birger, bowed somewhat flamboyantly in greetings. “Sire, allow my companions and I to prepare you for your betrothal. I must say we are all overjoyed by the news.”

Loki grit his teeth, lips pulled back in a very forced, sarcastic smile. The steward was personally employed by his mother, and had been around the palace longer his parents’ marriage. The man’s knowledge and dealings with all parts of the palace was invaluable. He had his fingers in several pies, so to speak. While Birger was an eccentric old fellow, his professionalism did nothing to hide the truth of the matter. Of course the palace and household staff would be pleased to hear of his approaching marriage. As much as he disliked his family at the moment, he doubted they would announce the Fidelity Charm. Marriage was always perceived to be an anchor in a man’s life. The responsibility of a wife who would, hopefully, set him straight. His monstrous reputation spread far and wide; of course the Aesir people would pray that a wife would tame the beast. 

“Of course, my bride is a pretty little thing, isn’t she? I could just eat her up.”

The quip was received with similar reactions from most of the men. Mild horror and disgust, which was quickly covered by hard smiles of their own in an effort to hide the disrespect. Birgir was unmoved by the prince’s jibe. Loki frowned at that, but Birgir was unmoved by a lot of things. Still, he made the others go pale. He gloats to himself some as the steward turns and leads the small party towards the dark prince’s chambers. Passing staff pause and watch the group make their way through the palace, some of them turning and whispering as it dawned that Prince Loki was preparing for tonight’s celebrations. 

______

“I think this looks marvelous on you, Prince Loki,” Birger mused aloud as one of the tailors held up yet another gold, green, and black uniform, which seemed to shout masculinity and suaveness. All his garb did. The tailors had already begun work on making new outfits for the youngest prince, happy to make any royal article of clothing, especially for a grand event. Tonight was only the betrothal ceremony, but tomorrow he would wear something even grander. All of the clothes and capes and pieces of ceremonial armor that was being thrown in his face was giving Loki a headache. Shamelessly the only thing that made this somewhat barrable was using his seiðr to make some mischief. 

“Hmm, yes, you said that before. Is there anything else you can say, or are you only about to spew the same trademark lines?”

The steward was frustratingly unaffected by the prince’s cruel wit. Birgir merely smiled. “I am simply being honest, Your Highness. The princess is sure to be wooed by anything our finest tailors have to offer.”

His nostrils flared. “I do not believe I am married yet, _Birger_ , so to call that woman a princess is defamation to the royal name.”

“The lady will be soon enough, sire. After tonight she might as well be,” the man said lively, stepping back to view the prince as one of the tailors laid another shirt across Loki’s chest, muttering notes to himself with its measurements. It was swished away for a cape to be draped across the prince’s shoulders. A moment of silence settle in the room, the servants working quietly with fabrics and clothes.

“Tell me about her,” Loki says abruptly.

Birgir looks up in surprise, blinking a bit as if to clear a fog from his mind. “Pardon, sire?”

“Tell me all that you know about my bride,” he snapped, black hair falling into his face. He hated to repeat himself but his patience was waning by the days. “I’m sure you already know everything there is about the Dagdóttir, having your nose in everything. If you value your tongue I suggest you start talking.”

The steward’s mouth parts in a silent understanding look, and nods. “I hear that several of the lady’s townsfolk have come to stay for the wedding. Lord Dag is keeping a heavy eye on her position here.”

Loki looked up at this with squinted eyes. It suddenly occurred to the dark prince that he didn’t know anything about his fiancee other than what she looked like, her family, and what hovel she crawled out of. Lord Dag was a minor noble who rarely visited the palace, which was even rarer than him leaving Kvíviñ. Loki had only seen the liege lord a handful of times, and the prince’s impression of him had been neutral. Dag was mostly reserved and antisocial. Hence Loki’s surprise at hearing he had children. Did Dag even have a wife? Loki hadn’t heard, but then again his interest and knowledge in the lord was extremely limited. “Explain.”

Birger looked a tinsy bit uneasy, but in no way hesitant to relay his knowledge to the prince. He leaned forward a bit, lifting a hand to cover his mouth as his voice dropped to a whisper. “Word in the palace is he’s very reluctant to give his daughter’s hand away.” Loki rolled his eyes, ignoring a twinge of dejection. “The people love the youngest Dagdóttir. There is rumor of her being... quite odd.”

“Odd? Odd how?” Loki asked, not believing that for a second. Loath as he was to admit it, the girl had poise. 

“A mere whisper amongst us simpletons, sire,” Birger said dryly. “...I do not have evidence, but according to one of his party’s footmen the girl was intended for someone else. She is also not his direct blood, but a foundling. Hence her foreign name and looks.” 

The prince jerked out of one of the tailor’s measuring. “Are you telling me that the King is chaining me to a possible _peasant?”_ He hissed, all his walls flying up and anger and fury resurfacing tenfold. How dare his father match him with a lowly bitch. Seer 

Birger shakes his head with grace, stepping around in a little dance to allow the tailors to work around them. “Her birth parents were delegates from another realm, distant half-cousins even.” He lowered his voice to a whisper again. “But talk is that within the last few days, Lord Dag has tried several times to appeal to the King to have her annulled from the betrothal by proposing one of his other daughters in her place. The other girls are illegitimate, unlike your fiancee.”

The turmoil within Loki lessened at this revelation. It surprised him. Should it matter to a man which child was being wed to royalty? It interested him greatly as to why Lord Dag would try annulling any betrothal with the King’s son. The first thought was that the girl was his favorite child, by blood or not, and didn’t want the little mouse sacrificed to the snake. Maybe he wanted the chit to wed his elder brother. Loki sneered. He didn’t want her anymore now than he did earlier, but if she was to be his wife then he demanded her fidelity. However on the other hand why would the lord try and suggest a bastard to marry a royal? Was it because they were still his sires, and Loki’s fiancee was not? Was that why the girl was so quiet? Her father, _adopted_ father, was ashamed of having a foundling representing his household and city? No wonder Dag was pressing the King to choose one of his true daughters if that was the case. Still, the matter was shrouded in mystery.

“If her sisters are older, why are they not already wed?” Loki abruptly asked with a furrow in his brow. 

“I’m afraid I do not know, sire. But the maids have made protest to the head housemaid that the elder Dagdóttirs are... difficult to serve. Her Majesty did not interview them as candidates to be your bride.”

Loki smirked, suppressing an amused snigger at the notion of two spoiled, fat noblewomen making the palace maids’ lives a nightmare as they tried to pretty themselves up for the princes. It sounded like a significant difference than his own bride-to be--

He clamped his mind shut on the thought. His little bride-to-be was as familiar to him as was Birger’s left toe. She could very well be just as snotty and demanding as her adopted sisters. 

Loki watched the tailor beside him, a thin little man with pale blue eyes and hands that shook. He deducted it was fear that caused the man’s tremors, as all the clothes made by the royal tailors were expertly made and went beyond what a noble would call basic finery. He was a prince, after all. Liked or not he still dressed as one. A cruel smirk appeared at the trickster’s lips, and with a swirl of a finger green light appeared by the small man’s foot. One of the emerald fabrics on the floor transformed into a snake. The scaled creature lifted its head and hissed, aiming for the tailor’s ankle. 

Shouts erupted from the room to which Loki only laughed to, poorly concealing his smile as the servants jumped around chaotically. Maybe the night would not be so boring after all. 

______

“That poor girl,” a maid murmured thoughtfully to a fellow servant, who nodded in agreement. “He’s going to eat her alive.” 

“I heard that Prince Loki nearly made a scandal with her outside in the gardens, just this morning!” The second maid declared in an urgent whisper. 

“Preposterous! What happened?”

“Alfhildr said that she and Finna accompanied Lady Dagdóttir, and all the prince did was grill her with questions before nearly ripping her head off. What was the King thinking, picking such a girl to be the beast’s wife?”

Loki had heard enough of this conversation. A bitter taste formed in his mouth.

He’d been standing in the private entranceway toward the ballroom, cloaked in his betrothal uniform. He was spiffy and elegant in all his black and green leathers, adorned with gold. Compared to the wedding outfit, this was a bit more dressed-down as one might say. As such he did not wear most of his armor today. His helmet was off, and his black hair was slicked back and curled like a raven’s wing. Not a hair or thread was out of place, and his new shoes skidded on the glossy marble floors as he walked toward the gossiping servants. It was never said that Loki was not handsome or strong, but he still wasn’t Thor, and his sly trickster’s reputation was not as intimidating.

But Loki could be intimidating. He _was_ intimidating, and when he loomed over the two women with a look so dark, so foul, that when the maids looked up they all but shrieked and backed away. Their heads bowed down so fast he almost thought they’d throw themselves on their faces. 

“S-Sire!” The older servant cried, clasping her hands together and not daring to look up. Her companion just had to peek, though, and through loose blonde hair, she squeaked at his expression, quickly mimicking her elder’s stance of submission. 

Loki stood there with a grim shadow across his pale, chiseled face. A sneer formed at his lips at their constant quivering. 

“And just what gives you the right… to speak so brashly in regards to your prince?” He said carefully, dangerously, as each cultured word fell from his mouth.

He aimed this at the younger girl, who’d been the one to chitter and spread the story of his and the lady’s moment in the garden. But the girl blanched and looked seconds away from loosing her lunch, to which the prince gritted his teeth. He may be forced into this ceremony tonight, but he was not going to waste his seiðr on his shoes. Taking a step back, he crossed his arms and lifted his chin haughtily. “If you can’t keep your mouth shut about things that do not concern you, you can chatter all you’d like in the dungeons.”

The maid gaped, looking faint.

“As for you,” Loki adds, jerking his head toward the elder maid who’d had enough since to stay bowed. “Teach your girl to stop gossiping. It would make this palace a whole lot _cleaner_ if you got to work.” The maids bowed deeply before scurrying off.

The theme for the betrothal was simple. His colors of green and gold adorned the table clothes and tapestries, which did humble him as he hadn’t had anything so dedicated toward him before. There were accents of ivory and egg blue around, which he knew were the color of the House of Dag. Foundling or no, his future bride was still honoured by being a part of that household. Did others know she was adopted? It wasn’t anything he’d heard of before, but she didn’t look anything like Dag from what he remembers. He wonders what the other girls look like, if they are any prettier or so drastically different that it was obvious they were not blood relatives. Questions unanswered, the lady was still representing Dag’s little fiefdom.

Loki grew bored of prowling around the ballroom, as hindering the servant’s work was doing nothing to stop the betrothal. And he knew he was being looked for, having been dodging the delegates responsible to prepare him for tonight. He entertained the idea of finding a woman to enjoy himself with before he was chained to that little thing. The idea became appealing enough that he left the ballroom, ignoring the sighs of relief at his departure. A moment of pleasure will be good for him. Let loose some of this tension and say farewell to his freedom. He’d never get to fuck like he use to after getting married, Loki knew.

And so the prince crept into the hallways where the visiting maidens were roomed, making himself not too conspicuous but enough to catch someone’s eye. Women did not flock to him like they did Thor, and sadly that could not be helped. Years ago he’d tried to disguise himself as Thor but it hurt more to witness how much the people truly adored his brother more. But Loki had his charms. He was the opposite of Asgard’s golden prince. He was, to put it simply, a bad boy, and that appeal got a number of women’s invitations to their beds. 

Loki finds an appealing backside walking down one hallway. The woman was dressed in a dress of gold and ivory silk and fine ruffles. It bared her shoulders and upper back. He was interested to know what the front looked like, but he didn’t want the girl to see his face. He didn’t want to see hers. He didn’t care.

The dress dragged on the floor as did her long, flowing sleeves that cut from the elbow to below her upper arms. He watched the woman turn a corner into a hallway he knew was a deadend. Making himself invisible he followed the girl, stopping short when she came back around as if realizing that way was not her destination. He froze, seeing her familiar face.

Shit! It was the chit! _The_ chit, the faux-Dagdóttir! Loki felt his lower jaw grind into his upper teeth as he watched the elegantly dressed girl look around with a look of mild concern. Was she lost? Looking for someone? The dark prince thought back to Birgir’s words on how she was supposedly destined for some other man. He would be all too glad to shove her into that fellow’s way, but a strange fizzle of emotion bubbled up. To publicly claim the girl as his wasn't an entire shame, as she was comely and walked with as much poise as his mother. She was far below his station, and an orphan, but none would be the wiser as she could fit the princess bill with ease. 

Loki shakes himself. No, he would not pretend or even dare to try and find enjoyment in this sham of a marriage. He would not grovel or beg for pity from her. No matter how pleasant her hands felt against his face. 

Lady Dagdóttir continued to walk down the arching hallways, looking all around with a concerned wrinkle in her brow. Clearly she was lost, he thought, the notion of her seeking for some other man squashed under the realization. If he had found she was meeting a lover in secret, he would kill the man. 

He wanted to find some gratification in viewing her predicament, but soon it just became annoying. Loki didn’t want to interact with her anymore than he had to, so before he realized what he was doing he shapeshifted into a snake. 

His serpent body was long and agile, glistening with golden green scales. As a boy he had taken great delights in frightening people as a snake, especially Thor as the oaf always fell for it. He was especially sneaky in this form, which had helped him and others to spy effortlessly. Would the lady see him and go running? Shrieking like a frightened little girl at the scary little animal? He would smile, but his mouth was unmoving. 

Loki sees the heat from her body in rolls of orange and red, and naturally he made his way toward it. The floor was cold and bothersome against his belly, but he still was able to slither about with grace. Flicking his tongue he tasted and scented hints of nectar and lavender, warm white tea and something sweet, like a sugary confection. It appealed to him, he’d admit, and followed her trail until he was able to nudge her sandal-clad ankle with his cold nose.

Indeed, a small yip emitted from the lady. She spun around, her flowing gown spinning in a wide gold circle. The dress was held up by a clasp at the throat, an elegant gold collar adorned with emeralds and pearls. Pearls and flecks of gold held up the little sleeves, which hung down to the floor and swept around him as she stood over him. If he slithered just a few inched forward he could go under her skirts. But, before he could act on his mischief, she surprised him once again. 

“How did you get in here, little rogue?” She said this with such a serious, authoritative tone that he almost forgot that she was but a maiden. Loki almost opened his mouth to defend himself, make some sarcastic remark about the weather and view being excellent down here, but he was but a snake. Before he could move the girl swiftly reached down and grasped one hand right behind his head and another around his middle. His mouth dropped open with an undignified gape, jaw twisting up as he turned a glare at her. Her grip wasn’t so strong that it would strangle him, but enough to hinder him from moving his head. His whole body tried to wriggle out of her hold but she’d all but paralized him.

The lady held him up to the lights, staring at him assessingly. She turned him about like a jeweler studying some complex gem. Examining him from all angles. Eventually she turned the snake to face her, staring right into its eyes. He almost felt humbled by her cold calculation of him. “Are you going to bite me?” Came the next question, as if she expected an answer. He could only gape at her. What--what was she doing?

Too soon for him to even begin to understand her motives right now, her face changed into one of realization. Immediately her expression grew vacant, and she quite literally dropped him. Loki hissed as he writhed in the air only to land with a smack on the floor, his long body twisting in all directions from the brief burst of pain. He was given little time to recover from the headspin, for the girl bent down to pick him up again, this time by sliding her hands under his body, not a paralyzing squeeze. 

“I’m sorry little one,” she said softly. “I thought you were poisonous.”

He should have changed back at this, but lying vertically on both of her open palms allowed him to slither onto her right arm, tongue scenting the air around her. She tasted like honeyed tea and biscuits, with something salty underlining it all like sea foam. He huffed through his nose, his pale green mouth brushing against her bare forearm. 

Loki did not understand himself. He should change back into a man now, but it was refreshing to find someone (other than his family) who did not loath this version of him. Sif and the Warriors Three had tried to squash him on various occasions while Loki was in this form. But besides that she confused him. So far she hadn’t acted like anything he’d expected of her. It was jarring to say in the least.

And he was curious as to what she’d do to him. Did she know it was him? Or did she have a likeness toward snakes?

That thought was….

Warming.

How queer!

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said in a soft tone as she carried him down the hall, with snake-Loki curling around her forearm. “I’m terribly lost and I doubt any of the other ladies will appreciate the sight of you.”

She had a point. He could get down and show her the way but he didn’t want to. Her arm was warm.

“Well, looks like we’ll both be stuck here forever.” She said somewhat deadpanned. “I--”

“Hey, _princess!”_ Came a sudden screech down the hall, and Loki felt the girl’s body jerk as if in revulsion or pain. He didn’t have much time to process the yell, as Dagdóttir sighed and turned her head, and he watched with great interest as she gave a tired and forced smile. Aw, was something finally bothering his poor little princess?

“Hello Yrsa,” Dagdóttir greets, not turning her body lest the other girl sees the snake on her arm. Loki then grew absolutely delighted with a wicked idea, and once more slithered up her arm to her sleeve, where he could slide his way into her dress. The fabric of her corset kept him from her skin, but it was warm enough. Her whole body grew very hot, and antsy because how should a lady act when a snake was in her dress? Her arms crossed as if she was trying to squish him in her gown. Loki did this for several reasons. One, to make his usual, classic mischief. Two, he wanted to watch how she interacted with others beside him, and three--Well, who didn’t want to slither around some breasts?

“There you are,” this Yrsa said with open disdain, and all but pushed his bride aside. This made Loki hiss with surprise. Unsure if he should be angry that someone’s dare assault the future princess (because how much he hated the thought of being married she would still represent part of the royal family), or delighted someone else hated her, he stayed still. “Oh, don’t you hiss at me! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Is this the dress Her _Majesty_ picked? I can’t be, it’s positively dreadful. It’s a sack.”

If Loki had ears now they’d perk up. This girl’s voice wasn’t the teasing. She was downright nasty! 

“This was one of my mother’s dresses,” came a calm reply from the youngest Dagdóttir.

“Well, if you’re trying to win Prince Loki’s eye with that you’ll get nowhere. He’s of much higher breeding, _sweaty_ , so we know you can’t understand. Let me sit by him, maybe I can take your oh-so-grievous burden off you. Maybe when he sees real princess-material he’ll let you go back to your silly little hobbies.”

“My hobbies are not silly, sister. And while I’d gladly let you have Loki I don’t want to cause a scene. It would make bad talk to flirt with my fiance at our betrothal. What would Father think?”

Yrsa’s response was chaotic. “Father wanted ME to marry the prince, you stupid little streetrat! The whole village knows it, and before the King annuls this farce of a marriage don’t come crawling to us! I doubt Sten will want you after being the prince’s whore.”

Wow.

Even Loki was shocked. 

The woman--this sister of his betrothed--was as sour as he’d image his wife to be. Besides that, this attitude was so out of context. Yrsa wasn’t just jealous her adopted sister was marrying a prince. She was downright furious, a true embodiment of his feelings only moments ago. As of now, Loki does not know how to feel about his little future wife. So far she’d been as calm as a clam in the face of trouble. 

Instead of bursting into tears (Loki is beginning to finally believe she’s not snotty, but just childishly naive), the adopted Dagdóttir let out a sigh. She went to open her mouth in response, but Loki had heard enough. He wriggled against her corset and popped his head from the top of the dress, right where it connected to the gold collar. His head bobbed and swayed as he stretched upward and faced Yrsa. Indeed, this Dagdóttir looked nothing like his fiancee. Yrsa was a tall slender girl with long blonde hair and pale brown eyes, with a nose so small and a face so pinched she reminded him of an angry little dog. Her whole body was admitted crazy amounts of heat, all focused on hate.

Had he been like this earlier?

Nevermind that, though. Yrsa stared at him, mouth open as if she was about to speak, statue-still as she watched a snake poke out of her sister’s dress. 

Loki hissed, his mouth opening wide to show fangs that had not been there moments ago. 

The spell between them broke, and Yrsa let out an unladylike screech. She turned down the hall and screamed all the while running away.

Now _that_ was fun!

Before he can remember that he’s in his fiancee’s dress quite literally, she grabs his neck and yanks him out, dropping him on the ground again. “That was dirty,” she retorted. “My sister does not like snakes.”

“Well, that’s too bad for her, isn’t it?”

Her face was comical as her eyes widened, mouth parting. She certainly had not expected the snake to talk back. Loki smirked now, mouth morphing into human skin. Suddenly the girl found herself staring upward at the younger prince of Asgard.

“Hello,” he greets, sneering delightfully at her look of shock. “Seems I’ve misjudged you. You’re not a little rat, but a little _mouse_. Just today I heard someone say I’d eat you up. How ironic?” Loki chuckled darkly and took a step toward her, pinning her against the hallway wall. 

“You--you--” Before she could speak, she was raising her hand upward. Loki believed she was about to get all touchy-feely on him again, and for a moment he actually considered letting her. Either way, he was stagnant, studying her features and struggling to figure her out. He had succeeded in giving her another fright, which pleased him in regards to his plan to remind her of her place. Maybe marriage wouldn’t be so bad if he could rile her up this easily--

The thought is cut short, as her palm raises up to come down and slap him across the face.


	5. Like Mead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki gets a little violent with Reader, but luckily you have a strong backbone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!(((TW for a mild anxiety attack, alcohol abuse, and sad loki)))!!!
> 
> (((and i edited the tagss!!))

Loki was gobsmacked. 

Quite literally.

The hand that connected with his face emitted a deafening smack in the quiet hallway, to which he stared down at the girl as if she’d grown a second head. No one had ever laid a hand on him like this before--in war, he’d certainly been attacked and beaten, and a few women in the past had playfully smacked him before, but--

This was different.

He had no idea what had warranted such behavior. Uptil now the girl had been nothing but poise; gentle in her regard to him. Even when he’d grasped her thigh and threatened great violence toward her, the girl held her ground and acted with a cool head. 

As much as it annoyed him that it caused little reaction from her, he had to be appreciative of the fact this little girl wasn’t the snotty, whiny little brat he’d predicted.

His hands were pressed against the wall, trapping the girl between his arms as he loomed over her. She looked so small in this position, with eyes so big and deep that Loki knew he’d drown in if he were to look too closely. Loki shut his mouth hard enough to make his teeth clatter when he realized he’d been gaping at her. 

The gall of her.

_Finally._

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, gawping at him just like he’d done seconds ago. Blood rushed to her face, as if she were more embarrassed than horrified she’d slapped a royal prince. “I--”

When the shock of the slap had passed, Loki found that he didn’t have the patience for whatever feeble explanation she had and reached down to grab her wrists, pinning them to the wall on either side of her head. He chastised himself for even beginning to think, however fleetingly, she might not be so unbearable. Warm bosom or not, she’d finally laid out the proof he needed to condemn her. 

After all, he couldn’t punish someone for something they hadn’t done. He wasn’t that big of a monster.

But now, oooooooh, now. Now he had reason to spite her.

He grasped her wrists tightly in his palms, hands large enough to encase a wrist entirely in each hand. Loki drew them up and slammed them against the walls again, knocking force into her carpuses. She let out a gasp of pain and surprise, watching him as if he’d gone ma--

No.

She watched him with an entirely different expression than one of disbelief or fear, not even indignation--

She looked at him as if she was greatly disappointed.

It made no logic, _zero sense_ , as to why she would look at him like _that_ , as if he’d disappointed her so greatly she’d turn into his own mother and lecture him needlessly. Thank the Norns she wasn’t his mother, or he’d know he’d get an earful following that disheartened expression. At least Loki, no matter how angry he was, wouldn’t slam his mother’s wrists against the wall in his fury. Throw a vase maybe…

Loki blinked rapidly, trying to decipher the girl’s expression. Reading into people’s inner intentions and desires was a well-honed skill of the dark prince, but for once in over hundreds of years he found himself confused and uncertain. What was he supposed to do? She’d all but arrested him with a single look alone.

The raven-haired prince shook his head as if it would dispel whatever strange enchantment she’d besotted him with. Adjusting his grip on her wrists again he yanks her arms down, clutching them by his sides while refusing to let her go. She didn’t move.

Her eyebrows were slightly pinched together as if she were the one struggling to figure him out. She had the sides of her delicate mouth pursed downward, eyes boring into his beseechingly. There was such a sudden sense of sorrow about her, just like in the garden. Sad. Sad for--not him, surely. Pity? No, he refused to have some little girl pity him--

Unless she knows.

Unless she KNOWS.

 _ **DId she know? Did she know about it? Knew his misgivings to the last detail--? Who told her? Mother or Father?**_ He thought his mother was on his side, despite being the one to have likely come up with the idea of the Fidelity Charm. The realization that this slip of a girl before him knew everything about him, all his sworn secrets he’d expected his parents to keep. Thor--not so much, but his brother didn’t know all of it. _None of them knew, none of them knew the pain, the anger, the misery--_

Loki’s eyes blaze emerald green. The hands clasped around her wrists tighten a fraction, causing the girl to cry out softly and wince. “What do you know?”

“I--” Her brows furrowed together, mouth parted but no words to fall forth. 

“TELL ME!” He yelled, panic filling him. If someone had told her--If someone had told her why he was the way he was, why he was worse than the oaf next in line. Worse than a temperamental drunk in a stupor. Loki thrust his left hand to her neck, pressing her against the wall again. “Tell me what you know!”

“I-I know nothing, my prince--”

“Lies,” he exclaimed, ignoring that the girl’s words had lacked any dishonesty. With how shaken he was, pale faced and breath coming in short spurts, he believed his ability for truth and lies to have failed him here. “You know something--”

“No,” the girl insisted. Loki had no assumptions as to what his betrothed might do next, but what happened was alarming. Terrifying. 

She suddenly shifted against him and kneed him right between the legs, sloppily blown yet hitting her mark. A flare of pain broke through the cloud of rage in his mind, making Loki hiss and let her wrists go to regain his balance. Being caught off guard only make him angrier toward the Dagdóttir. Hunched over, he gasped out a curse seconds before her hand made contact with his face, shoving him backwards so roughly he tumbled to the ground. Loki vaguely bemused that were she anyone else, a man perhaps, he would have been able to block all of those inept attacks. In reality, Loki was so upset up he hadn’t even processed any of her moves. He just saw red, and reached out to grab her when what looked like a hand came barreling towards his face. He flinched, expecting the blow, but once again he was thrown out of expectations. She had reached out her hand as if to offer him help but, but the prince was having none of that. Only hindered for a moment, he was able to lean upward and seize her by the arm. Loki yanked her downward. She fumbled and followed, awkwardly landing on him in a mess of silks and gold. They knocked heads momentarily, both yelping with pain. They fought against each other, but it was blind pawing and ungainly smacking. He tried to roll her over and pin her again, but she evaded him by kicking him once more in the groin. A foul curse left his mouth, and he would have used a curse of a magical nature had she not shouted for him to stop. 

He only shot daggers at her, black hair which was once pristine and well-combed now disheveled and tangled. Her hands were grasping his hair, tugging with just enough pressure before it could really hurt.

He felt like a child, suddenly, and a memory of him and Thor as children came to mind. Refusing to let a woman’s cry of pain deterre him, he reached for her again, hands at her shoulders.

“Loki,” cried the lady, and Loki looked up in alarm as he had no idea what they were doing all of a sudden. It all seemed pointless, really, but he still wanted to throttle her. “Loki,” she said again, red faced from the exertion of their tumble. “Loki, stop.”

“What--” 

“Loki, _stop,_ please,” she begged, and Loki blinked rapidly to properly look at her. “You hurt me. You _are_ hurting me. Let go of my arms.”

“No--” She was straddling his waist, but kept her weight on her knees so that she wasn’t exactly pressed against him. The hands threaded through his locks of black gave her balance, and he found himself straining to keep his eyes up to look at her. He dropped his head against the ground with an audible smack, making him groan. 

“Loki,” she began, “Loki, I’m so sorry but this has to stop. I’m not out to hurt you.”

“How dare you use my name, you impudent little girl.”

“I do dare, because frankly I don’t care about tact at the moment.”

“Do you want to be thrown in the dungeons? Remove your hands from me!”

“Forgive me, my prince, but no. I’ll let you go when you let go.”

“No! You first!”

Her eyes grew wet with frustration. “Loki, please, this is childish.”

His anger only grew tenfold. He howled. “I’ll act however I want, you stupid bitch! Let me go!”

“Take a deep breath.”

“You spiteful cunt, _let me go!”_

“You need to calm down, Loki.”

Loki was suddenly swamped with a feeling of 

n-

-othing

For a moment all he was focused on was digging his fingers as hard as he could into her upper arms when, suddenly, she lost her balance on her knees. Warmth spread over him as she settled her weight on his lap. It was distracting enough that he almost missed the feeling of her fingers loosening in his hair. Her digits threaded through his hair like she was seeking for bumps on his skull. No, not bumps--she was _messaging_ his scalp. A moan of shock left him. No one had done this to him since he was a small child. 

A _child._

Loki shuts his eyes and jerks his head away. A feeling of emptiness fills the anger, as if it had all been seeped out of him. He felt drained and dazed, as if he’d been running all day without stopping. The prince swallowed thickly, tongue heavy and dry in his mouth. The ability for speech flew from him. Limply his hands fell from her.

Her fingers pressed into his scalp, kneading with repeated patterns-- _up and down, up and down, tug, let go, tug, let go._ After a moment Loki just stared up at the ceiling as if he’d fallen from exhaustion. He tried to feel for his hands, to reach up and push her off, push her away, but his hands felt heavy like stone. Like they weren’t even his hands at all. 

Loki couldn’t feel _anything_.

And it was wonderful.

It was just the sound of their breathing, slowing and ebbing like the sea after a tidal wave .

______

Suddenly it was over. Loki could feel himself again.

Embarrassed and infurious for his show of vulnerability, he forgets about causing her pain and pushes her off him with a weak shove. She slipped off his lap as if she were a sack of potatoes, her focus still on him, eyes wide and wet as if she’d been crying.

Both of them stare, uncertain, and unwilling to move lest the tense moment of peace break.

Loki found himself at a standstill. He truly had _no idea_ what the _fuck_ had just happened. What kind of sorcery was this? Was she a mage of some kind? He knew magic when it was near - but nothing came to him hinting even a single spark of magic off her. He almost forgot why he was so mad in the first place, but his memory came back like it was being forced to trudge through mud. Shit. 

“What did you do?” He demanded, shattering the moment. Both of them jumped at the sound of his voice piercing the quiet. 

The girl looked down, her hands lying palm-up on the floor. “I did what I had to do, my prince. I’m so sorry.”

 _”What_ are you sorry for? _**What did you do to me?**_ ”

“I helped you let go,” she said enigmatically with something akin to a temper flairing, but her own anger, if it had ever even been there to begin with (had she ever even behaved aggressively? Loki didn’t know, hadn’t seen it--) seemed to simmer in the depths of her eyes. 

“Let go--let go of _what?”_

She moved forward. Loki wanted to flinch backwards but everything around him seemed vailed in fog. He tried to shake it away, but it seemed as if there was nothing to shake away to begin with. He was… numb. Almost blissfully so, if he wasn’t so concerned--or rather, concerned that he struggled to be concerned. 

Instead of slapping him again, she just laid her hand on his cheek, eyes searching his. He leaned away, not wanting any charm she had left. She did not follow, but let her hand hang in the air. 

They were silent again.

Eventually his mysterious fiancee stood up on shaking legs. She looked like a newborn fawn. She assisted him up, said goodbye, and left without another word for she was biting her lower lip so hard it bled.

The God of Mischief was gobsmacked once more.

_____

The betrothal ceremony was not as glamorous as he’d expected it to be. He knew it was because it happened so soon, and everyone who was invited to attend had not had time to arrive. Servants hustled about serving drinks and light snacks, the honied scents of mead calling to him.

Mead was a good drink if he really wanted to get inebriated. Tonight he decided it was well deserved.

Loki hadn’t seen his betrothed since their encounter in the hallway. Perhaps it was best, since he didn’t want to see her at all. Yet on the other hand he had millions of questions. When she arrived at the ceremony with all the pomp his parents could provide, he acknowledged her as little as possible.

Never before in all his thousand years had someone had an effect like that on him. Logically he knew that a simple _scalp massage_ wasn’t enough to quell his righteous fury. Right? 

Something was different about the Dagdóttir. Something magic? No. Strange, but he hadn’t detected a lick of seiðr off her. Nothing. She was unadorned with anything special besides a nice bosom.

Yet she’d done the impossible. 

She’d pacified him.

Like a sweet, fiery sip of mead she’d warmed him up before dropping him low. So low, to the ground, where the cold press of marble still kept to his back with a phantom’s whispery touch. The dark prince shivered at the memory, unable to drink away the image burned into his mind. The way she’d loomed over him, straddling his lap, was akin to that of a warrior, but her expression was always so _soft_ and _pitying_. It made him want to break something.

Like the current drink in his hand, whatever had locked up his emotions eventually dispelled. All it left behind was a pounding headache. He did multiple tests to see if he’d been cursed or hexed, but all that he found was his own. She had used _no magic_ on him, no seiðr or witchcraft of any sort. Had she given him some jinxed item to make him feel that way? He looked, but nothing from her was on his body besides the ghost of her touch. 

He drank a lot of mead. 

That evening Loki mentally checked himself out before the party started. Loki knows he’d been forced into the betrothal, but he didn’t want to suffer from the night any more than he had to. Most of the evening, his accursed parents sat high and mighty on their thrones as the eldest son danced and wooed everything with a pussy in the room. It was sickening, especially since this was a night dedicated to Loki.

Thor tried to dance with his betrothed too, but Loki stumbled from his brooding corner to snatch her away from him. He’d done his best to avoid the girl until the meal, but he refused to let his brother charm her too. As he neared she’d looked up, eyes silently begging for something. He cared not for what she wanted. IGlowering at the chuckling Thor, Loki grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the thick. The crowd parted for them like the Red Sea. 

“Stop that,” he growled quietly, breaking the silence between them once he came to a stop at a less-populated area. She looked up in surprise. He noticed her face was wane, as if she hadn’t slept in ages. Red rims the whites of her eyes too, and he remembers she’d been just like that this morning. Had she been crying?

“What?”

“Stop frowning. Look happy or make us look bad,” Loki warned, pulling her towards him. He was tipsy but he knew his duties….mostly. 

He made them appear the ever-happy couple, excited for the impending nuptials! 

Bah. 

The younger prince might not be as famed as Thor, but Loki could be as suave as the sun was bright. He forced on his best smile, taking his betrothed’s hands in his and beginning to waltz with her, aware of the hundreds of eyes watching them like hawks. More than once the bitterly resentful sister, one of the real Dagdóttirs, had tried to catch his attention with coquettish looks. He ignored the woman, despite her beauty, because he wanted nothing to do with a woman that vain. 

At least his betrothed wasn’t like that.

They avoided eye contact at first, but he felt her relax as the night wore on. Even after dancing they both mutually agreed (wordlessly) to keep her arms tucked together. As if they’d banded together to face the rowdy crowds of the court. His brave little trophy wife. How he could flaunt that about. But he didn’t. He drank more mead and it loosened his tongue enough to make niceties with the guests. Besides Yrsa, he saw no one related to his future bride. No one else from Kvíviñ approached them. No friends of the girl hanging on his arm came to well-wish them. Anyone who spoke to the couple were from the city capital or visiting delegates and nobles.

No one from Kvíviñ.

He drank more.

He didn’t speak to his betrothed. She didn’t speak to him. 

Despite their differences they kept close, keeping her arm on his. His jeweled maiden shivered now and then. Loki could not help but notice she’d go pale for brief moments, as if she’d faint. He didn’t ask if she was well, but it caught his attention. He quirked a brow at her, mouth heady with honey and spice. She kind of smelled like honey tonight. Honey and tea. She did not give an answer, just a tiny smile and a bow of her head. After, the only thing uniting the two were their joined arms, and the occasional curious glances between them. 

Loki couldn’t believe it, but they were going to get married. 

And he would be her thrall.

Loki had to keep reminding himself that this wasn’t a nightmare. He couldn’t wake up. Still, if it was shock or the mead that kept the fear of tomorrow back, he didn’t know. The longer the night wore on, the more he lost touch with himself. His betrothed did not talk, barely smiled, and seemed to grow nauseous over the offerings of snacks around them.

Right before the King announced that it was time to move into the great dinning room, it was Loki who fainted. 

____

Mead.

What a glorious drink.

For a small while he’d forgotten his troubles. He forgot that he was about to sign his life and freedom away to an unaccountable stranger who made him numb with a mere touch. He forgot that he lived in his brother’s shadow. He forgot his ch—

No.

Not forgetting that.

Immediately his memory came swamping back, hitting him like a ton of bricks. He’d imbibed himself on enough drink to poison a small Midgardian village. He thinks he must have fainted once he’d left the ballroom, but the memory was hazy.

The raven prince had woken up, head pounding, to find himself in his bed. Someone had put him in his nightgown. A glass of water sat by the bed. The sun was down, and his natural internal clock said he’d lost consciousness for several hours, but before the morning of his wedding.

**The wedding.**

Foremost, Loki wanted to go back to sleep. But nights were the worst. The palace was mostly asleep and no one was around to distract him from himself. The past few days had his focus pinned on his betrothed, anger over the situation clouding his senses. In his heart of hearts the whole ordeal distracted him from a lot of things. An excuse to get angry, an excuse to try and fight back. He couldn’t fight back with anything else.Wasn’t _strong_ enough to fight back. Not in muscle or in status. No one went against the king’s orders.

He threw the blanket off him and rubbed his face.How he craved the feeling of oblivion, to drive out all the pain and anger. All Loki wanted was to keep himself occupied and entertained enough to forget. To forget _everything_. The intoxication was gone, and immediately he wanted to find another horn of mead.

He had his ways to get a drink if he so desired, but it all sounded too tedious. His head was pounding too much. He just wanted to _forget_ —.

Humiliatingly, he could not, because his _mummy and daddy_ forbade him to go to the kitchens at night. All the servants had been threatened with a penalty of a five year prison sentence if they served the younger prince an alcoholic drink outside of public gatherings. Did they even have a fraction of understanding for his predicament? How everything that was supposedly promised to a prince had been snatched away? Forever out of his reach lest he become king himself? 

Loki didn’t want to rule. But if it meant having his way… The dark prince had slowly but surely tried to piece together ways he could gave power here. All of those plans had withered and died upon the announcement of the betrothment. 

The girl was… agreeable, he begrudgingly decided, because they’d shared something today. Sporadically, their moments together since morning had formed some kind of relationship. Some kind of camaraderie had settled between them at the betrothal ceremony. It certainly wasn’t romantic, barely a mild attraction, and far from a friendship. _Aquaintanceship_ was really pushing it. It was not entirely a lie however. But they’d shared _something._

He could only pray to the Norns she would show mercy once she had complete and utter control of him.

Loki reached for the glass of water and swigged it down in one go. Gasping once he let up for air, he threw it across the room where it shattered against the wall. It gave him no respite.

With eyes heavy with wretchedness over himself, he reached for the richly carved bedside table and pulled open a drawer. Odin had taken much from Loki; his voice, his fun, his freedom. Now all but his _cock_ had been taken! His future wife was pretty (in her own way) but the thought of only being able to fuck her for the rest of her (or his) life was culturally shocking! Yes, he knew he would have to be (mostly) faithful to a spouse but he was still young--!

He wasn’t ready for that commitment, especially when he had no choice in the matter. Even if (Loki doubted) the girl gave permission for him to lie with her whenever he chose… 

None of that mattered now. There was nothing left for Loki. 

Pulling his hand out of the drawer he brings his gotten items close. A wave of bittersweet sadness rolls over him as he observes the little trinkets, feeling them from every angle. Odin had taken everything from Loki, but damned if he was going to let the old man take the one thing he had left. Angry tears prick at his eyes. He’d kill anyone, even the girl he was forced to marry, if someone tried to take them away:

The memories of his children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Coming up next: nuptial planning, jealousy, and Reader's adopted family!)
> 
> So excited to see people are liking this!!! Over 1,000 views and 100 kudos! WOW! THANK YOU, READERS! >:-D


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